Virelya's fingers flexed once, her golden eyes narrowing behind her mask. "You take pride in this," she said, her voice a breathy hiss, her coils tightening slightly.
"I take pride in being alive," Zathra shot back, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her tail flicking. "And this—" she gestured around the den, at the skulls, the bones, the writhing pit—"is what being alive here looks like. You don't like it? You can leave."
No one moved, the tension thick, the air humming with unspoken challenges.
Azareel stepped forward, ignoring the weight pressing in from both sides, his silver eyes steady on Zathra.
"You've kept this for centuries," he said, his voice soft but probing, carrying a quiet wonder.
Zathra tilted her head, her red-orange eyes studying him like a puzzle, her grin faltering for a heartbeat.
"Why does that sound like pity, angel?" she asked, her voice sharp but curious, her tail stilling.
